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And bring trophies, where the Ages

Should behold our mingled names : But, alas! these simple pages

Are the most my labor claims.

Yet, should any leaves grow vernal

In the summer-breath of praise,
Then for you, with hand fraternal,

Let me twine my wreath of bays.

ROME, August 1, 1861.


The scenes of this poem are chiefly laid on the banks of the Schuylkill, between Philadelphia and Valley Forge; the time, somewhat previous to and during a great part of the war of Independence.

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The author is well aware of the justice of the remark made by his publisher, that the present is not a favorable time to expect the country to receive a volume of poetry with any marked attention; yet; as much of it has already been given to the public through the beautiful medium of Mr. Murdoch's voice, and as many have expressed a wish to see the poem entire, the author is induced to risk the chances. This is, however, not done without some fear and trembling on his part, inasmuch as it may turn out to be that the various audiences who have heard it, and expressed their approbation, may have been led captive by the reader's great elocutionary power rather than by the beauty of the verse.

Whatever the verdict

may be, one gratifying fact remains with the writer, that it has been instrumental, in the hands of Mr. Murdoch, of putting no inconsiderable sums of money into the treasuries of sanitary committees,—thereby benefiting the sick and wounded who have suffered in our country's cause.

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